Page 12 of Hat Trick

“What?” she says, glancing around. “What did Imiss?”

Charlie snickers, and I resist the urge to kick her in the shin. “Oh, nothing. Our beloved Gwen is still talking aboutHunt.”

“About how he turned her down?” Zoe replies, reaching for Charlie’s glass of wine. In other words,myglass ofwine.

“Yup.”

“Oh, huh, guess I didn’t miss muchthen.”

“Is this pick-on-Gwen night or something?” Smiling politely at the cocktail server as she drops off our second round of much-needed booze, I turn back to my friends. “Why don’t you two have my side onthis?”

Charlie and Zoe exchange a look, and it’s one that I can’t read. After a sip of her fresh Manhattan, Charlie props her elbows on the table and stares me down. “Do you want this easy orhard?”

I give an awkward laugh, knowing both of my friends aren’t the sort to beat around the bush. “Is this where I make a bad sex joke? That’s what she said, and allthat?”

Zoe scrubs a hand over her mouth like she’s fighting off a smile but doesn’t want to encourage me. “No,” she says, lips still twitching, “this is where we tell you that we love you. You know we do. But this is all yourfault.”

Charlie nods her curly blond head in agreement. “Totally your fault. What did you expect when you’ve strung the poor guy along for ten yearsnow?”

“It hasn’t been . . .” Knowing that neither one of them is going to care about the fact that I haven’t evenknownMarshall for ten years, I add, “Correction. I’ve never strung him along. Notonce.”

“Lies.” Charlie points at my wine. “Take asip.”

“Is this a new drinking game we’replaying?”

“It is tonight.” Charlie pushes the wine glass toward me with one finger to the base. “Now, how about that time three months ago when you made sure to order his favorite kind of wings when we were having dinner atZoe’s?”

They’ve got to be kidding me. Since when does an order from the local chicken-wing joint equate to relationship-anything? Clearly, the two of them are absolutely, irrefutably bonkers. Which, to be honest, isn’tshocking.

Charlie thrives off being the life of the party, as much as she pretends to be the quiet wallflower decorating the furniture. She’s hilarious, friendly, and snarky enough that most people are caught off-guard when she opens her mouth and trash-talks with the same caliber as a professional hockeyplayer.

Zoe’s not much better. Sure, she can be quiet in group settings—unless she’s got a drink or two in her—but she’s just as much of a snark-master as our girlCharls.

So, it’s with a bit of trepidation that I murmur, “It waswings, you guys. Fried chicken, of all things. I didn’t offer him my leftkidney.”

“Would you?” asks Zoe, lifting her brows. “Because Hunt would do that foryou.”

“Give me his kidney?” I shake my head. “Wouldn’thappen.”

“Yousure?”

“Well . . . yeah.” Am I sure? I certainlythinkthat I am. Yes, Marshall hasn’t made an effort to conceal his attraction to me over the years. But attraction isn’t nearly the same thing ascaringaboutsomeone.

“Drink time!” Charlie shouts, giving me The Look. The one where she’s both triumphant and tipsy, and I’m pretty sure she’s swaying in her seat. “You need a plan,” she adds, most definitely swaying now. She tries to pass it off like she’s dancing to the beat, but while hip-hop blasts from the bar’s speakers, Charls looks like she’s wrapped up in a slow-jam number from promnight.

She’s even got her arms wrapped around herbelly.

We should probably get ready to call it a night. I’m not feeling all that sober myself. I blame Marshall for this—because in the span of five minutes, he managed to undo everything. I have my role in our relationship; he has his. When I hook up with guys—which hasn’t happened in months—they’re always older, separated from their wives, and way too busy with their careers to think about me for longer than it takes for us to do the deed. I don’t do younger guysormen with a penchant for long-term crushes. That’s not my style; it’sneverbeen mystyle.

But then Marshall walked away, closing a door I’d ignored for so long, and . . . maybe I’m feeling a sense of regret for missing out on what could have been. Maybe I secretly liked the chase, and now that he has no plans to keep up the game, I’m desperate for any sort of connection withhim.

Maybe you just don’t want him to walkaway.

I bring my wine glass to my lips for a swallow of the cold, irrefutable truth—that I didn’t mind ignoring Marshall’s advances when I always assumed he’d bethere.

And now he’snot.

Like my friends so eloquently told me, I have no one to blame butmyself.

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